Poetry - January, 2009

Wasn’t it Augustine who said, evil is matterout of place? He kisses his loveas he pivots from the brothel gate,his ardent heart already grittywith guilt. I imagine the big Atrying to shake sin from himselfas I haul our red rug out and shake it.Dear God, what we track in, how sin siftslike fine silt into our deepest grooves!And once inside, the dirt forgetsthat it’s our backyard. We keep trackingthe outside in, sweeping it out again.

Or that’s what I get from The Confessions.How love, like soil, is out of place for, maybe,half its orbit. How sinning and repentance followone another like all the circles on this fickleearth, rain taken up by clouds, then fallingon us again. Maples spinning whiffsthat grow to seedlings. Children begettingchildren. And every insult you bestowwhirring like graying underwearin some dryer of regret.

Way back in Christianity’s kindergarten,Augustine had it figured out. He guessedour remorse and longing as he closedthe brothel door, seeing a womangaze at the sooty outline on her white sheetof a tall blacksmith the morning after.